Fear and Other Aphrodisiacs
by kikis2
Summary: Four Upper East Siders wait for their lover and contemplate their fears and daddy issues. 1. Anne/Howard 2. Chuck/Blair. Hints of N/S, B/L.
1. Anne

Disclaimer: No character is mine..._yet_.

**A/N: Just wanted to try my hand at something different. All I ever write is depressing Serena-centric fics, so I guess you can judge if I'm a one trick pony or not.**

**Warning: TWT. Chapters will be non-consecutive and unrelated one-shots. **

xoxo

Two thirty-three ticked past. She had less than half an hour to gather her courage, re-do her hair, and choose an outfit.

She didn't know what people wore to prisons, so she kneeled to prune another row.

Somewhere, in the last four years, she'd convinced herself that this was the real world. This world, filled with nothing but happy colours and perfection, was the only world she'd ever understood. Not the one where she had to walk through a metal detector just to see her husband.

Her home was by the Connecticut shore, in an oversized cottage her parents rarely used. She lingered here, in her self-imposed exile, her only company the bright and silent Lady Banks' roses she cultivated.

She gently fingered the band through her gardening glove. Now it only fit on her smallest finger._ It's_ _platinum, Anna. _She was eight when her father curled her palm around it, eight and completely uninterested in the cold, grey thing. But always he bought her platinum. _Gold is soft—weak and useless in the long run._

If spoken by anyone else, the words would have been forgotten. But William van der Bilt held a special place in her life, a god among men who had lowered himself by deigning to father her.

How she had wanted to be the daughter he deserved. Perfect on the outside, van der Bilt platinum on the inside. Instead she'd failed him by falling in love with a wayward Archibald, a third son who'd burnt his familiar bridges long ago.

Was Howard waiting for her, right now? Did they really have to wear jumpsuits in prison?

She pictured him in his crisp white shirt and naval insignia.

Her heart ached, till she could think about it no more.

Hurriedly she moved on to the next bush.

Once Nathaniel could sit by her side for hours while she gardened. She's adored her softly spoken son who loved beauty as much as she did. She'd always picked the largest rose of the summer for him. When he was eight, she'd hinted that the well-dressed brunette with perfect posture might appreciate it. Anne was always observant, and the blonde her son stared at was careless, would destroy her prized rose without thought.

But Nate never listened to her and in the end she'd just smiled ruefully when she spotted her rose in the buttonhole of Chuck Bass's suit jacket.

Now, Nathaniel had little to say to the mother who had never been enough for him. It didn't matter the jobs she'd found, the connections she's forged, the funds she'd lowered herself to beg for—for him, _always for him_. And when her husband failed them, her family turned their backs, and her friends had smiled gleefully, she'd only held her head higher.

_Selfish_, he'd called her, for wanting him to have the best life, even when he refused to want it for himself.

All he could see was the woman who refused to step foot in a prison, the woman who could never even pronounce the word suicide.

_All he saw was white gold raised above its station._

Nathaniel chose his own path, amused himself with one beautiful thing after another, always coming back to the same one.

They'd sat opposite from her, smiled nervously and politely eaten her tea cake. She ignored the long looks and small touches.

Ignored it until the bubbly blonde had grinned hopefully, holding out her hand.

Their engagement diamond glinted at her smugly.

The surprise had been real, her smile fake.

She looked between them uncertainly. Was it enough for Nathaniel that Serena was her exact opposite?

She tried to find something, _anything_ in Serena to admire. Enough beauty to make any boy stupid, certainly, but if her brilliant smile hid anything but flighty capriciousness, she couldn't find it.

_Oh Nathaniel, _ _I should have grown the Arctics_.

Thornless roses have no lessons to teach.

Still, she'd hugged them both, deciding she could accept one more recovering cocaine addict into the family.

"Anne?"

She stood, peeling off her gloves as she slowly turned. She glanced at her knees, making sure no dirt lingered. She raised a hand to her hair, knowing a few stands had slipped from her bun.

Nothing she could do about that now.

"Howard," she breathed, her smile cool but sweet. "I-I was going to come pick you up. I wanted to, I just…" Here she trailed off, faced her garden again. Fear was one thing, admitting it another.

There was a tiny bag by his side. It could carry less than her handbag. How could he have been away so long, with nothing that was his?

He walked closer. This was her real fear, right here. It wasn't the prison, the whispers, or her father's scorn.

She just didn't want to see what four years of incarceration had done to her husband. She didn't want to see him ravaged by hardship and pain. That she couldn't stand.

"It's alright. I'd rather see you here, like this." He closed in on her till she was shielded by his shadow.

She straightened her spine. (_Not gold, never that._)

She looked him over from head to toe. He bore her stare patiently, not daring to guess at her thoughts.

He was thin, but not underweight. He was pale, and his suit was wrinkled and too tight around his arms. His unruly curls were gone. She thought she'd miss them, but his buzz cut made him look younger, made him look like "The Captain" once again.

Just one step and her arms were wrapped around his neck. His eyes were still bright and blue, and more perfect than anything she could grow.

"I missed you so much," she whispered into his chest, her voice thick with tears that didn't fall.

She was an Archibald now; tears were acceptable.

He held her tight, his eyes shutting automatically. His mind was too overwhelmed to process anything but the feel of home and freedom and Anne.

Howard touched her greedily, trying to reacquaint himself with the delicate face, and soft brown hair.

She detangled herself. Her tears had already gone, replaced with a prim smile like they'd never existed.

"Let's get you out of that suit." She had something properly pressed in waiting, but she'd let him take her words however he wanted. She took his hand, leading him inside.

Today she'd fix their family, and tomorrow she'd think about conquering New York.

xoxo

_Platinum till the end._

_xoxo_

**E/N: Yes, yes, it's sappy, I know. **


	2. Chuck

**A/N:** Just a long winded drabble so I can practice happy endings.

**Warning**: There's a good reason I don't write Chair.

xoxo

In the backseat of his limo, Chuck pours himself a drink. He doesn't really want it, but his stomach feels weird and fluttery. No, not butterflies. No part of his body has ever been affected by flying pests.

He must just be horny.

And desperate.

Because he's sitting outside Blair's apartment at midnight, hoping, longing, and so stupid he disgusts himself.

But they're _friends _now. And friends are allowed to have sex. Even if they're lying to themselves.

This friendship is an uneasy fit. It feels like they're both fighting too hard just so this shared delusion won't collapse.

Because if those delusions of friendship come tumbling down, he'll be forced to look at what it is they really feel.

Love, is the truth they're all expecting. They think if their eyes meet for a second too long that's what they'll find. And that's scary.

But Chuck's true fear is that their eyes will meet, hold, and there will be absolutely nothing left to see. And if what they have _isn't_ love, that's terrifying.

If the feelings he had for Blair can simply cease to exist, with no trace left in sight, then they were never in love. And he knows, in every dark corner of his mind, that if he can't love Blair, he can't love anyone.

It's his father's fault. As an excuse it's used-up and dried-out from millions of disillusioned children, but it's still true. Clichés are cliché for a reason.

From the outside anyone would assume Bart Bass had loved Lily Van der Woodsen with a love stupid and unfaltering enough for any romance novel. But Chuck knows better.

At nine he'd found his father looking out the foyer window. A glass of liquor steadied in one hand, his eyes a sickly red.

"What's that in your hand?" Bart demands.

Chuck holds it out. It's a picture of a playground, all awkward lines and wrong colours, but he loves it. "Nate drew it for me."

Small lines appear between his father's brows as he studies the drawing. The frown deepens when he meets his son's eyes. "The Archibald kid?"

Chuck just nods, folding the paper in his hands and moving it behind his back.

Bart snorts, lips tilting into something resembling amusement, eyes fixing intently. "I know his grandfather." William van der Bilt had sold Bass Industries three hectares of unusable land. In a ridiculously over-sized manor, William had handed Bart a tumbler of brandy and smiled warmly. Minutes into the conversation Bart had been too furious to pay attention to the words. William would buy the land back at eighty cents to the dollar. Bart Bass was being robbed. But what could he do about it? Every priceless heirloom, that unwavering smile, the _my brother tees off with the governor on Thursdays_—it all said one thing. _I have connections. My very name has more worth than your bank account could ever hold. I am the immovable object, and there are no paradoxes_.

In the end Bart had shaken his hand politely, and ignored the condescending look in William's eyes that suggested he ought to be grateful.

"They'll never accept you, you know. It doesn't matter how much money you make. It doesn't matter if you could buy them ten times over-it'll never be enough. They'll always remember that when their grandfathers were sitting pretty on their plantations, yours were working them. In the end, you won't even be a blimp on the radar."

Chuck had heard it all before. Would hear it all again.

They lived on the Upper East Side. Everyone had money, so it meant nothing. But not everyone could trace their origins to the Mayflower. For the rest of his life, his father told him, he'd have to fight twice as hard to gain half the respect.

This was an old-money world—they just lived in it.

_Their_ rules, _their_ standards, _their_ judgements, it would never apply to them.

You have to be a part of the hierarchy to topple gracelessly to the bottom.

But Chuck isn't convinced, The world can't be that simple, can it?

"Serena's dad left and no one cares." _No one but Serena and Eric, of course. _

Bart gives him an even glance.

Chuck knows calculation when he sees it. It makes him uncomfortable, makes him wish he'd never opened his mouth.

"There are always exceptions," Bart murmurs, voice gone soft with thought.

His father turns away, a clear dismissal.

Chuck watches the world, and always his father's words are there, tinging the world in black and white, cynicism leaching away all greys.

Blair's dad leaves, male model close behind. The world doesn't blink. It never expected better from new money.

The Captain falls, and the Archibald's go down hard. Their world has crumbled. They might get back up, but from that moment they'll stumble on unsteady ground, and no one will dare offer them a hand.

Serena's threesomes end with body bags. Lily divorces a third husband. The world holds its breath, but the Van der Woodsen's shrug, keep moving, and the world forgets in a toss of golden hair.

Bart marries Lily.

Chuck wants to believe that his father is not a soulless beast. That somewhere, there's something worth loving, something capable of love.

But there's a voice , hateful with taunts, that tells him Bart is only trying to capture lightning in a jar. That he's trying to bottle up the Van der Woodsen gifts: blue blood and feet that people refuse to believe are made of clay. Magazine write-ups coo over the beautiful romance and Bass shares almost double in price.

So when Chuck says those three little words to Blair, he has to wonder what it is he truly loves. Is it Blair? Or is it the queen of the Upper East Side, so perfect and brilliant no one would dare point out that her family was wealthy through _work_, of all things?

The car door slams.

Chuck takes another sip, because the fluttering in his stomach just got worse.

"It's late Chuck." Blair rubs her hands together, blowing on them in a futile attempt for warmth.

Chuck looks at her appraisingly. She's perfect white skin, whiter teeth, hair jet-black in the darkness of the limo. His gaze drifts past her to the snowy streets

When he says nothing she continues impatiently. "I have an early class tomorrow."

"Then why'd you come?" He meets her glare evenly.

Blair shakes her head slightly. "Because I don't know how to stop." Her tone is frustrated, raw with the sort of honesty that refuses to be ignored.

Her eyes are warmest bistre, cheeks pink with cold, lips tinged blue just from the shortest walk to the car. It hurts when she's near, when he's forced to see too many colours. But it hurts more when she's gone, leaving him in the black and white world of his father's making. He tugs one hand into his, twines their fingers together so she can't pull away.

"Good."

Blair squeezes his hand with a tentative smile.

In the end, does it matter? If his father married, hoping for a clever alliance, he must have been disappointed, because not even a Bass is immune from Lily's charms.

"I never want you to stop," he says seriously, pulling Blair to his lap.

And he's certain it doesn't matter. Maybe he fell in love with a headband-crown, but it doesn't matter _why_ he loves her. It's enough that he does.


End file.
